Liber
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: The last image he saw of the great insurrection was the rebel flag, lying alone and forgotten on the ground. Hell could not be worse than this. AU. Mentions of Enjonine. One-shot.


**This is partly inspired from "No Good Deed" from _Wicked_, and when Fiyero is dragged off and beaten by the Gale Force. I was thinking how this could work in _Les Misérables_, and this popped in my head. Enjolras is, as always, Ramin Karimloo.**

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><p>Enjolras was the only one left.<p>

He had seen all his friends die, and now he was cornered, and could see no other choice than to surrender.

But he was not even given the dignity of surrendering, for the National Guard surrounded him and dragged him away from the barricade. The last image he saw of the great insurrection was the rebel flag, lying alone and forgotten on the ground.

The soldiers took him to an abandoned field, where a scarecrow rested lazily on a tall stake. They pulled the scarecrow off the stake and chained him to the stake in its place. Enjolras tried to resist, but a soldier hit his gun against Enjolras' jaw line, and he stepped back from the force of the blow.

Then another soldier had a scourge, and suddenly it was all too clear.

The first deep lash drew blood instantly. Enjolras gritted his teeth and did not make a sound. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain. Then the second, and the third, and there were so many he lost count. There was blood everywhere, staining the ground.

Finally the whipping ceased, and Enjolras sank to his knees. He may have not made a sound, but he could not control the searing pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He shut his eyes tightly, desperately clinging to whatever self-control he had left. He was roughly forced to his feet, and his wrists were unchained. For a moment, he did not know what was happening.

Without warning, he was thrown against the stake. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood as his spine exploded with pain. There was no doubt there would be damage to the spine. Then the soldiers dragged him forward and slammed him against the stake again. His mind was so completely filled with pain he could not remember how long this new form of torture lasted.

Finally, Enjolras was allowed to lie on the ground, at least momentarily. He could only gasp as his entire body burned with the unbearable sensations. He could not see how it could get worse.

But it could.

An officer came forward this time. The officer signaled to another soldier, who picked up the scourge and stepped beside the officer. Then the officer kneeled down. He whispered so only Enjolras could hear. "What's the name of your mistress, boy?" he asked.

If Enjolras could have thought clearly, he would have wondered why the officer would ask such an irrelevant question. But as it was, his exhausted brain started whirling. He could have said _France_, or _the Republic_, or even _Patria_.

But the only word that escaped his cracked lips was "_Éponine_".

"Oh, so it's Mlle. Éponine," the officer said darkly. "Let's see just how far you can survive torture."

The officer stood up and moved back far enough to be out of the line of the scourge, which felt like a white-hot iron on Enjolras' already beaten skin. Enjolras' body jerked at the sensation.

The officer kneeled again. "This Mlle. Éponine has left you," he whispered, and another lash came. "She doesn't care if you are alive or dead—" _lash_— "she's gone to another man—" _lash_— "she is laughing at what a fool you were—" _lash_— "she hates you—" _lash_— "she is going to stay with the other man for the rest of her life—" _lash_— "she never wants to see you again—" _lash_— "she thinks you are worthless—" _lash_— "she doesn't love you—" _lash_— "_she hates you..._"

This was the worst. It did not matter that Enjolras never had even a friendship with Éponine, it did not matter that Éponine was in love with Marius, it did not matter that they had barely spoken even five words to each other. Enjolras savagely suppressed the strange emotion that was welling inside of him and bit his lip so that he broke the tissue and blood oozed to the surface. He lay motionless on the dirt, utterly defenseless.

_Hell could not be worse than this_.

The officer stepped back. "All in all, a good day's work," he announced, and the soldiers responded in agreement. For the second time, the National Guard forced him onto his feet. He could not stand straight because of the devastating, overwhelming pain. In his hazy mindset, he deliriously wondered that if his death had been different, if there would have been a Catholic priest leaning over him, performing the last rites. But his friends had not been granted that privilege at the barricade, neither had Éponine. Who was he to half-wish for it himself?

"Any last words?" There was a gun pointed straight at his chest, and Enjolras was surprised they were granting him this privilege.

For a moment, the only sound heard was the wind, rushing over the barren field. Then, haltingly, clenched fist shaking in pain, Enjolras straightened and defiantly stared the soldier in the eye.

"_Vivé_—" he struggled to take a ragged breath— "_la république_."

The gun fired in the next second.


End file.
